opinionated perfection
by another moment gone
Summary: *One-Shot* You hated to see him sad. You loathed to see him mad. But you couldn’t stand to see him scowl at you in utter shame; even if you didn’t know what you did. -another moment gone- R


_Opinionated perfection

* * *

_

By -another moment gone-

When you were thirteen, you had always wanted to marry that boy you had been crushing on since you were, like, eleven.

You wanted to marry him and live in a enviable, tall, and expensive penthouse where your friends would pine over you and your perfect life. You wanted to share the wealth, and happiness with him, and you wanted to live your life to the fullest.

You wanted to look down from the many storied penthouse and look down at all those small specked people, and wave with a sultry smile playing on your lips; elegance and perfection.

But when you were thirteen, you had no clue that perfection, didn't even exist.

But you didn't know any better.

* * *

:::-:::

When you threw your sweet sixteen party, you got part one of that whole dreamland process. You snagged that special boy—and now you were onto bigger and better things.

You still wanted to marry that mysterious, alluring man; you still wanted to share sweet kisses with him under the moonlit sky. You wanted it all.

But when you were sixteen, you didn't know that that one special person, could lash out at you.

That the one special person you had ever truly fallen for—could actually, hit you.

But you were sixteen, you didn't know any better.

* * *

:::-:::

At the age of nineteen and attending the all elite and enviable college, Yale, you were the definition of perfection.

You still wanted that tall, tall penthouse to wake up in, with that loyal, sweet and loving man next to you. You still wanted all of it.

Every bystander cooed and _aww_'ed at the two of you when he had proposed to you on campus in front of a crowd—he was yours when you two were in public's eyes.

Even at the age of nineteen, you knew you were still a swooning girl that pined over that one special man. Despite all those little, 'incidents' that would strike whenever something bad happened to him. You still wanted to look into those once honest brown orbs and know you were safe.

On good days, when he wasn't angry and didn't have a bad day—you were in a safe zone. You only entered that precarious time-limited-zone if he had a good day, or after he beat you so badly you couldn't walk. You, being the expert on makeup, covered up each bruise—that each had a story you remembered well, but tried to forget—with lots of cover-up.

Almost an adult—and you still wanted all of your dreams.

Your mother still called and every time you answered, you had to monitor your voice; and he monitored your words as you spoke.

She'd tell you that she was worried for you, that something was wrong in your voice and each time you'd deny it, making up silly excuses like '_oh I just have a cold_' or _'I'm fine—just tired from working._' She'd eat it up whole.

But you still never learnt: perfection never existed. No exceptions.

* * *

:::-:::

When you turned twenty-three years old, on your birthday, things got out of hand.

Your mother had flown out to visit you, a surprise visit. And you had no idea that that was going to happen, and apparently, nor did he. But being the cynical kind of man he was—but still the one you truly loved—thought you were planning this all along, just so you could get out of his clutches.

You got it all, even the beautiful kids, and that was enough.

You had the very bright children, the gorgeous, sweet loving husband, and the perfect penthouse that was many stories up.

It was all you ever wanted.

That is until the day you were at home, putting the children to bed, and the doorbell rang. You knew your husband was out—probably cheating on you with some common sleazy woman that would hook up with him without a question, but you pretended not to notice those hickeys that trailed all over his neck and shoulders. You pretended.

When you answered the door, your mother was at the door with cookies in hand and a hesitant but happy smile on her lips.

You gasped and forgot all about that misery you had been sharing with yourself, and ran and hugged her tightly; whispering _I missed you_ over and over again. A true mantra at heart.

She seemed to look you over as you poured her coffee, even at the late hours, and she had that disproving look you hated to see when you were young—as if it was your fault for accomplishing all you ever wanted.

Making your dreams and wishes come true. Into a fairy tale, if you will.

She told you she had missed you too.

When your husband arrived home, she bit her lip and hugged him as he put on that good-guy act. You liked him best when he was _your _husband, not that monster he had been.

She seemed to believe his act and that was good, because you weren't in the mood for another beating.

"It's so nice of you to visit us," he cooed, pouring himself another cup of coffee and shooting you a pointed look that your mother didn't catch. "If you don't mind, I need to talk to my wife and share some news with her…"

Your mother took the hint and moved up the stairs, muttering something about meeting your kids.

You smiled brightly at him—hoping for a good day—and was sadly disappointed when he reached his arm to snap back and punch you in the eye; an angry look placating his entire face—a deranged unhappy, man.

Not your husband.

Not that man you had always wanted to share your world with.

The evil words, the punches, the slaps, it was all so tiring. And even if he whisper-hissed those words, you knew he meant it all—because every word he said, he meant.

You hated to see him sad.

You loathed to see him mad.

But you couldn't stand to see him scowl at you in utter shame; even if you didn't know what you did.

When things got too far, your mother came down the stairs and saw you two.

She ran to him and told him to get off of you with lots of cussing, than she called the police; even if you were still on the floor, frozen in your exact spot—a distant look in your eyes.

At the age of twenty-three, you still wanted to believe you were perfect,

Even if you knew it wasn't true at all.

You wanted to believe it was though.

* * *

:::-:::

**Author's Note:**

**_inspired by -rainbow-lights 's one-shot: Broken Perfection._**

**_:::-:::_**

Ehh. Kinda funny sounding, I guess. Uh... Review?

-another moment gone-


End file.
